


The Things I Will Do To You

by im_ridiculous



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Thank You Canada Tour, am i ashamed anymore? who can say, i mean pony wtf amirite?, kinda smut adjacent?, not really smut but not NOT smut?, the origin of the cunniliftus, the shocking true correlation between magic mike and cunniliftus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 20:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16353566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_ridiculous/pseuds/im_ridiculous
Summary: Tessa thinks she’s real clever, getting the girls to dance all sexy to Shania… Scott gets her back.Or:Magic Mike was released in Canada in June, 2012 and featured an iconic scene in which the titular character's signature move is to bury his face between the legs of an unsuspecting spectator while stripping to 'Pony' by Ginuwine. Later that same year, our kiddos debuted the original Carmen cunniliftus. Five years after that, Scott agreed to repeatedly rip his shirt open to ‘Pony’ in his very own skating show.You do the crackhead math.





	The Things I Will Do To You

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaall the way back on my bullshit.
> 
> Obviously this is all completely made up EXCEPT for the SHOCKING fact of the Magic Mike release date in the Year Cunniliftus of Our Lord, which is, terrifyingly, completely true.
> 
> Structurally... this is a little strange. I think it works? I hope? It’s not beta’d, so if you hate it I have only myself to blame. But hey, if that’s the case feel free to just forever hold your peace.
> 
> Title is taken from ‘Pony’ by the vm fandom poet laureate, Ginuwine. Because obviously.
> 
> For fairwinds… who started it. <3

“What about a dance-off?” she said, eyes shining with excitement, on the plane back home from Utah.

The sparkle of Tessa With A New Idea had always delighted him, it always would. But that didn’t mean he was super excited about potentially humiliating himself at his own trans-Canadian ice show night after night.

“How would that work, though, exactly? Because I don’t _really_ want to get smoked by you in front of thousands of people I’ve somehow previously tricked into thinking I have rhythm...”

“Oh stop that,” and she rolled her eyes, actually rolled her eyes at him. “Who are you talking to? You know you’re good--”

He tried to stop it, but he could feel the smirk spreading across his face all the same.

“--and… see? There you go, you _know_ you’re good, you just like making me say it--”

“I _do_ like making you say it, actually.”

“--which is gross. And unbecoming.”

Then she’d stuck her nose in the air while simultaneously poking out her tongue, and he’d been so violently reminded of, respectively, quiet-but-determinedly-competitive twenty-year-old Tess, and shy-but-surprisingly-competitive nine-year-old Tess, that he could feel his own competitive instincts kicking in too.

“OK, fine, a dance-off. Like… me versus you? You and me versus Andrew and Kait, or...?”

“No, I’m thinking more like... boys versus girls.”

And he saw it then: the glint. The look that meant she was absolutely sure this was a winner and that meant that it was absolutely going to happen, so…

“Sure,” he’d said. “We’ll wipe the floor with you.”

In hindsight, he should have realised she already had something in mind.

***

They planned the tour.

They absolutely denied that they deliberately scheduled the first show for their 21st anniversary.

(They absolutely deliberately scheduled the first show for their 21st anniversary.)

She got more and more excited about the dance-off as the other elements of the show slotted neatly into place, and when their friends started gathering in Montreal she gently suggested (heavily lobbied for) keeping each team’s dance-off songs and choreography a secret from the other until opening night.

(“As an anniversary surprise,” she’d whispered to him, nipping at his earlobe in the early morning quiet of their apartment before the first full day of rehearsals. He had readily agreed.)

Their friends just rolled their eyes.

(Andrew sighed. Eric pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Chiddy pretended to throw up. At least... they were pretty sure he was pretending.)

She didn’t say anything, but she thought for sure she had him beat. Because sure, it was an anniversary surprise, but it was obviously also a competition between the two of them to come up with the _best_ anniversary surprise.

And he could tell she thought she had him.

He could see it in her swagger when she and the girls sashayed off for practice with Sam. He could sense it in the curl of her mouth while she tried to keep a straight face, when they spoke about the dance-off in production meetings. He could feel it in the way she hummed against his lips, silencing him when he asked her to just come on, have mercy, give him some idea of what he was in for already.

But he didn’t actually _know_ why she was so confident until a couple of days later, when he and Chiddy and Andrew had set up camp with Marie-France under the shade of a leafy tree outside the rink, while the girls and Sam commandeered a large open space inside.

They counted out their steps for two numbers, both of which Marie confidently predicted would be a big hit. The first, ‘We Will Rock You’, was guaranteed to get everyone stomping along. The second, Bryan Adams’ ‘Summer of ‘69’, was a fun and bankable crowd-pleaser and Canadian to boot. Perfect. Neither was particularly sexy, but then again, he reminded himself, that was technically beside the point.

They’d been working hard and chugging water accordingly, and at some point he took all the bottles inside for a refill and a quick trip to the bathroom.

(And here’s the thing about him: he loves country music. He always has. He loves the melodies and the stories. He loves the emotion of it all, and the way it draws pictures of home and family and love and the things that matter. He loves the way the genre runs the gamut from the most devastating lament to the stupidest party banger. He loves all of it.

The thing about Tessa is: she does not love country music. Not at all. Not traditional country, not folk music, not bluegrass, not commercial country-pop, not sellout country-rock. None of it. Early Taylor Swift, she will allow. “Because it’s _Taylor Swift_ , Scott! God!” she’d gasped, affronted, that one time he’d asked her why. But that is all.

But here’s the other thing about Tessa: she knows he loves country music, and she puts up with it because she loves him. And it still feels kinda cool to say it as baldly as that, but there it is. She loves him, and so she’ll suffer country music for him. In a car, say, for part of a long trip. Or around the apartment in Montreal, especially when he’s cooking dinner. Or occasionally even during warmup, particularly if she senses he’s feeling especially homesick or nervous. But it’s not something that she’d ever subject herself to by choice. Certainly not for a skating program, when it’d mean having to hear it over and over and over again.

So, for all of those reasons, it was a bit of a surprise to emerge from the bathroom to hear Shania Twain’s ‘Man, I Feel Like A Woman’ floating down the corridor. Because while it barely counted as country, comparatively speaking, for Ms Shania Twain, he happened to know for a fact that Ms Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue considered it to be far too country for her. Much to his personal pain and confusion.

Because, yeah, sue him, he’d liked singing along to the song when it was first released. And fine, maybe he had suffered from a small and obviously entirely innocent crush on Shania, back in the day. Whatever. He was like ten years old. The song was everywhere.

And sure, maybe, if pressed, he might point to a moment when he was about fifteen when he saw the music video on TV and had what he may have later learned is sometimes described as a “sexual awakening” or something. Fine. He’s a grown man. He can admit to that now. He’s only human. And humans have human reactions to other humans. Humans wearing black satin corsets and thigh-high boots in music videos. Whatever.

And so what if he did nearly lose his shit altogether back in 2014 when Tessa, not even realising how badly she was going for his jugular, had decided she was going to wear a fucking black top hat to round out a costume that looked just a little too similar for comfort to Shania’s, back when things between them were _not_ okay and he’d just started a new relationship and was suddenly struggling to control a whole tide of angst and desire and disappointment and want, all wrapped up in a package that contained his complicatedly-platonic skating partner and his earliest sexual fantasy, and look, fine. Fine. It wasn’t fine. It was a complicated time.

But that was a long time ago, and things were so very good between them now. And, yes, he may have thought once or twice about how he actually wouldn’t mind trying to recombine his less-complicated-and-now-not-at-all-platonic skating and life partner with his most persistent sexual fantasy, but, y’know… it just hadn’t come up. Yet. They’d been busy. And then she’d been away. And then they’d been busy again. And it wasn’t like they hadn’t been having plenty of sex, because, huh, they had been having _plenty_ of sex, thank you very much, but the point was…

Wait, what was the point again?

Oh, right. The point was: )

It was a bit of a shock when he heard the familiar country-pop strains of ‘Man, I Feel Like A Woman’ echoing down the corridor.

He crept along until the corridor opened out onto a landing where Sam and the girls, facing away from him, walked through steps in time with Sam’s endearingly nonsensical choreo cues.

And there she was, his girl, the love of his life, his _Tess_ , dancing to _that_ song. And dancing like _that_. Like a fucking goddess. Like everything he’d ever dreamed. More than that, even.

For a moment, while his brain rebooted after short-circuiting, he considered just coughing to make his presence known, or even just marching right over there and kissing her hard on the mouth and letting whatever happened next happen and bystanders be damned.

But then he remembered that glint in her eye, on the plane home from Utah.

And then he remembered that it was her idea to keep these particular parts of the show a secret from each other until the very last moment.

And then, with searing clarity, as if it had been waiting all this time just to pop up from his subconscious and surprise him, he remembered a moment from not long after they got to Michigan, at one of their first Canton parties. She’d been nervous and fidgeting, and he’d been a few beers in and fuzzy, and he had just pulled her up to dance, to try to make her enjoy herself a little, when the song had started. And he’d told her. Fuck, he had, hadn’t he? He could hear the words leaving his mouth in the memory.

“She is so hot in this video,” he’d slurred. Her eyes had widened but stayed locked on his. “Like… really hot. Really.”

And then they’d danced, and he’d forgotten all about it. And until this very moment, he would have been certain she’d forgotten all about it too. Except now it would seem certain that she absolutely had not.

So instead of giving the game away he tiptoed back down the corridor and outside to the shady tree where Andrew and Chiddy looked around expectantly for the water bottles he’d left forgotten inside, protesting when they realised he didn’t have them. He ignored them.

“Marie, did you know they’re doing Shania?”

Marie-France’s brow furrowed, even as he saw Chiddy and Andrew’s confusion slide into ‘O’s of dawning comprehension.

“Yes, of course. But, you’re not supposed to know. It’s the surprise.”

Her frown deepened as she took in his expression.

“It’s a problem?”

“Ok, forget Bryan. Bryan is out. Bryan can’t take us where we need to go.”

“Scott, what is this?” Marie had that edge in her voice that made it clear that even for him, for her favourite, she was not prepared to throw out agreed music and choreo on a whim. “And what are you mumbling now?”

Sprung.

“I just… I just said, ‘I bet she designed the costumes, too’, is all.”

Marie looked over to Andrew and Chiddy, both of whom now looked suspiciously close to exploding with laughter, and then back to him.

“Who designed the costumes? Tessa, you mean to say? Of course Mathieu has consulted her closely, as he has consulted me, but… What are you talking about, ‘Tessa has designed the costumes?’ - why is this bad?”

“Because they’re gonna be hot, Marie. That’s what he’s saying,” Andrew cut in, drier than the Sahara Desert, looking straight at him with a smirk that threatened to break his perfect face in half. God damn Poje and their years of inconveniently candid childhood-to-teenage friendship.

“He’s always had a thing for Shania Twain” Et tu, Chiddy? “He wants to know just how sexy the costumes are before he can work out whether he’s going to be able to skate without having a heart attack.”

“I don’t think it’s a _heart attack_ that he’s worried about...” Andrew muttered.

And then two of his oldest and dearest friends, a characterisation he was rapidly reconsidering, dissolved into fits of booming laughter as Marie stood, airily irritated, waiting for him to explain himself.

Then it finally dawned on him. This wasn’t a problem at all.

This was an opportunity: an unbelievable, improbable, delicious opportunity, for a _real_ competition. And he knew exactly how he was going to win it.

“Yeah Bryan is out, Marie,” he said again, smirking in spite of himself.

“Tell me… do you remember a track from like the mid 90s, by a dude called Ginuwine?”

 

* * *

 

Let me tell you a story, she’d said, years ago but years after it had all happened.

Her hair shone in the mid-afternoon light that filtered through the windows of the lakeside cottage and splashed across the bed where she, in turn, was draped across him. Her head on his chest, she watched her fingers draw lazy circles on his stomach. Let me tell you a story.

The year was 2012.

It was late summer in Canada.

Knowing their dear friend was about to disappear into an ever-shrinking bubble of focus and preparation ahead of a home-ice World Championships and another tilt at Olympic glory, a group of girls from Western Ontario hatched a plan.

(“Oh they did, did they,” he had interjected, smirking. “This is going to be good.”

She’d slapped his chest and turned her head to peer up at him.

“Shush you. No interrupting.”

And he’d placated her and she’d snuggled back against him and resumed tracing patterns with her fingertips, and told him the story.)

The girls decided they were going to pretend like they were teenagers again. They’d sneak alcohol into the movie theatre, and then have more cocktails at a bar, and then kick on dancing til the sun came up. One last girls’ night out blow-out for the summer, before life started closing in again.

Naturally, the next question was what movie they would see, and conveniently enough, the perfect film had been released just a few weeks earlier, in late June.

Magic Mike.

There had been a discussion as to whether or not it was a bit… tacky. Certainly, it was a movie best seen with a bunch of girlfriends. You had to make a night of it. In any case, the girls from Western Ontario decided that tacky was exactly what they all needed right now, their friend most of all.

One last big summer blow-out.

And it was perfect. The girls howled and hollered and collapsed into hysterical laughter, passing their vodka-spiked orange juice back and forth, and competing with each other over who could make the loudest, lewdest wisecracks.

Then it happened: the iconic moment. Mike, doin’ his thing to ‘Pony’. And suddenly that ridiculous song, the one they had all danced to as drunken teenagers just barely old enough to get into seedy clubs on retro night, pretending they were all big city sophisticates who were absolutely and of course in the market for a one-off dirty hookup...

Suddenly that song was the hottest thing any of them had ever heard.

And it was halfway through, as Mike picked up a girl from the crowd, throwing her legs over his shoulders and burying his face between her legs, that, in the spirit of their wisecracking competition, one of the girls leaned over to the friend and whooped:

_Well there’s this season’s choreography all worked out for you!_

And even as they all dissolved into howling laughter and scandalised hoots of _Oh my god! Can you imagine?!_ … the friend, the girl who knew she was about to head back into a bubble with a boy she’d loved on and off - and been confused about, above all - for two-thirds of her life, couldn’t help but imagine.

The image of it ripped right through her like an electric current, coursing from her head to the very centre of her, to the very essence of her, sparking off every nerve ending into the dark movie theatre and leaving her breathless, her knuckles white on the armrests.

She tried to stop thinking about it.

That made it worse.

She thought about it that night, and many nights after, alone in her bed.

She thought about it when he picked her up to drive them both back to their lives, to the bubble that sealed around them with a pop and started shrinking.

She thought about it through two straight weeks of choreo development, as their coaches pushed and searched for something new, something different, something with more of an edge.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

(“He didn’t know all this at the time, of course,” she’d said, propping herself up on her elbow and looking at him with dark green eyes.

“No he did not,” he had agreed, and heard his own breath catch in his throat before he picked up the story.)

All he knew then, was that she arrived one day with a new idea for a lift that was pretty… out there. And that things were already getting weird between them, since they had started training the new choreography. That damn Carmen program. It was… pretty out there, too. Even for them.

As it was, he’d already started feeling like the thing between them - the current that ran back and forth and had always been there - had supercharged somehow, almost overnight. Like a power surge had thrown it into overdrive.

It crackled between them, sometimes literally. He could have sworn he’d heard it sparking, like two live wires pushed together in a hurricane.

They’d never gone there.

Out of an unspoken fear of a mutually understood danger, they had never gone there.

But as she had talked him and their vaguely horrified coaches through her idea for a new lift, he could feel it stronger than ever - the electricity in his blood that called out for the current in hers.

So, delighted though he always was by her enthusiasm for a new idea… this was different. It was clear in the way she spoke, like this was something she wanted but was afraid to ask for.

His part - his job, really, and he took it seriously - was to have her back; to support her when she really wanted something, come what may. He had failed at that, before, and so it mattered to him, then. But still… this was different.

So it was really self-preservation when he’d cleared his throat and said, _But… wouldn’t I be lifting you over my head?_

Their eyes had met, and there it was again: the crackle and the spark. She’d felt it that time, too. He was sure of it.

(“She sure did,” she’d said, breathless.

“Shush. My turn,” he smirked back at her, and she smiled, and gestured for him to go on.)

She’d licked her lips.

 _No_ , she’d started, but her mouth was dry. She swallowed, and tried again.

 _No, it’d be like you’re… Like I’m…_ She cleared her throat. _I’d be wrapped_ around _your head. My legs would be, I mean._

And so they would. And so she did.

They never really recovered.

Not that season, anyway. Not for a very long time.

(He’d soothed her sharp inhale with a kiss to the top of her head, and pulled her closer.)

So they skated Carmen, and it was always there: the crackle and the spark.

And one day the spark caught. Of course it did.

They burned each other to ash.

They burned each other.

Somewhere along the way he started seeing someone else; a futile attempt to ground himself, to send the current safely into the earth. On a rare excursion out of the bubble, his someone had sat him down on her couch and made him watch Magic Mike.

And after that, he’d... wondered.

The Olympic season started and ended, and things got worse.

They stayed bad for a long time.

And then... they got better.

And then they got great. They got really, really great.

(She’d smiled against his chest then, there in their bed where it was finally safe, where they were out of the woods, and the whole story was told at last.

Then she had propped herself back up on her elbow and looked at him, smiling still.

The smile became a grin, and the grin a laugh, until both of them, roaring and tangled up in each other, proved just how great they’d become.

That night, when he was trying to cook her dinner, she’d sidled up behind him and snaked her arms around his waist and softly, incongruously - ridiculously, really - started singing ‘Pony’.

He’d twisted on the spot, scooped her up and kissed her hard, and staggered in blind hope towards the bedroom.

She’d shrieked with laughter as he threw her down on the mattress, and gasped when he buried his face between her legs.

“Oh, my Tessa Jane,” he’d growled.

“The things I will do to you.”)

 

* * *

 

So sure, maybe, when she skated out in her thigh-high black stockings and her short black shorts and her black bustier, he may have been momentarily rendered speechless.

And look, it was debatable but not entirely inaccurate to say that it took all his self-control not to skate right over to her and kiss her hard on the mouth with serious intent the second the girls finished their first dance-off number.

But that was also the moment he knew that he had her. Because she’d already played her ace.

And as the weirdly erotic opening chords of ‘Pony’ echoed through the arena, and the crowd went absolutely apeshit bananas, and he spun around and ripped his shirt open with a smug smirk on his face… his eyes sought only hers.

He found them, glinting in the darkness, and there it was again: the crackle and the spark, arcing between them across the ice, across 21 years, brighter and more constant than any spotlight.

She passed him wordlessly as they skated off, after, the howling crowd reduced to a muted buzzing in his ears. She grabbed for his hand and pulled him behind her, but didn’t meet his eyes.

She didn’t even stop to snap on her skate guards.

She shoved him against the cinderblock in the dim half-light of backstage, hidden between towering piles of road cases.

He barely had time to grin at her, barely had time to register the blazing glint in her dark green eyes, before she was on him. And if he’d thought he already knew what it was to be kissed by that woman, that was the moment he realised he was wrong.

They broke apart at the sound of laughter somewhere off to his right, panting shamelessly. She grinned hungrily up at him, and he couldn’t help himself.

“So I think I win, right?”

She tried to suppress her smile, but he knew he had her.

“I suppose - maybe - this round goes to you, yes. Just!”

“Oh baby, come on,” he said, gloating freely now. “You heard that crowd. You know we’re gonna win every show, right?”

There it was. That look. That look that said, ‘you’re very lucky that you are so fucking adorable because you are incorrigible but unfortunately for me I love it.’

He loved that look.

“I’m gonna need to hear you say it though, baby.”

“Yes, unfortunately I have to accept that your shameless and disturbing self-objectification means you have an unfair advantage in our littl--

“Uh-uh. Ohh no. You know exactly what you did that led us here.”

“I… may have contributed a small amount. I will concede that. Fine.”

She sighed, though, then. And that sent a chill rushing over him, as suddenly as if she’d upended a bucket of ice water over his head.

“But you… I mean… Now that you’ve seen it… I mean, you’re ok with this, right?”

That look again. She dropped her head to the side and peered up at him, the hands that had fallen to his waist scratching slowly up his chest and curling around the back of his neck.

“Yes, baby. I’m ok with this.”

“You’re sure, though? Because if you’re not, I c--”

She silenced him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Scott?” And to his jawline.

“Mhmm?”

“Sweetheart?” And to his forehead. His eyes fell closed.

“Yeah?”

“Baby?” And to the corner of his eye.

“Lover mine?” And to the tip of his nose.

He opened his eyes.

“Doesn’t every little girl, at some point, wish she had a pony?”

And he laughed, loud, and kissed her like his life depended on it, which he was pretty sure it did.

And he kept on kissing her until his lungs gave out, until he was forced to come up for air. Chest heaving, he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Happy anniversary, Tess. I’m glad you liked your surprise.”

He felt her smile rather than saw it.

“Happy anniversary. I hope you’ll like yours too.”

It took his poor oxygen-deprived brain a moment to catch up.

“Wait… I thought the dance-off _was_ the surprise?”

She pulled back and cocked her head, eyebrows knitted together like he was missing something very important.

“Oh no. Scott. The dance-off was _the competition_. You won. You get a prize.”

She stepped back a couple paces, like she was showing herself off for him.

“I just really… I don’t know…” She trailed off, sighing, throwing her shoulders back and shaking her hair out. “Man, I just really feel like a woman tonight, y’know?”

His jaw hit the floor. She smirked and glanced over her shoulder to the stage manager who was walking towards them, then back at him.

Her green eyes sparked.

“Ohh, Scotty Moir. The things I will do to you…”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, you guys...


End file.
